


A Little White Lie

by OneofWebs



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Confessions, Drinking, Holy Water, Implied Sexual Content, Jealousy, Kissing, M/M, Making Out, Minor Injuries, Past Relationship(s), Wing Grooming, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-12
Updated: 2019-07-12
Packaged: 2020-06-27 05:41:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,632
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19784392
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OneofWebs/pseuds/OneofWebs
Summary: After a night goes badly, Crowley finds himself in a strange situation where his wings are hurt. He asks for Aziraphale's help, not because he needs it, but because he wants the company. Aziraphale figures out the plan almost as fast as it happens, but he doesn't leave. This seems as good an excuse as any to stick by Crowley's side.-Or, just another plan that Crowley should have thought through for longer than fifteen seconds.





	A Little White Lie

**Author's Note:**

> I was asking for ideas in my server and someone suggested I try my hand at a wing fic. I don't know if I accomplished that but there are wings in this story, so i'll consider this an absolute win. Hope you enjoy!

Somewhere between six and seven in the morning, Crowley heard the shower click on. All he did was roll over, shove his hands underneath the pillows, and bury himself back to sleep. Somewhere closer to eight, the shower clicked off. Doors and the like were what woke Crowley this time, just enough that he turned his head towards the sound and watched Her slip through the open crack. She was a plump little thing, short and round like a pear at the hips where it really mattered; her hair was a stark and shocking bit of blonde that hung nearly to her waist, though that was because it was wet and dripping over the nice floor. When it had been dry, and Crowley remembered, it had been done up in tight little curls all splayed out around her head like a halo as he’d worked her into the mattress with a passion.

Oh, and it had been very passionate. He even cracked a smile as he watched her flit about the room, picking up her discarded pair of underwear from the night before for a pathetic attempt at modesty. A moment later, she caught his eye and grinned. The morning was still young, and neither of them had a place to be. It would seem a far waste for her to leave so early and abandon Crowley where he was, lying quite comfortably in bed with almost less modesty than she, what with the sheets wrapped low and tangled about his hips. His glasses were set up on the nightstand, and he might have grabbed for them save the fact that she was stalking across his room, hips swaying as they did. The eyes didn’t bother her, of course.

She couldn’t _see_ them. Not like, say, another demon might. Not that they particularly cared either.

There was a particularly shiny thing around her neck that Crowley didn’t notice. Or, it was more accurate to say that it hadn’t been there before. A necklace that had been stuffed into her purse or some other small space for the night, only to be replaced in the morning. All Crowley really cared about, minus the specifics and the details, was how it dangled down between her breasts and moved with her as she walked. As she put her knee on the bed and straddled the small of his back, her hands sliding up his sides.

“Have you anywhere to be this morning, Anthony?” she asked him.

“Not a place in the world or any other,” he muttered, letting his eyes close again as she kneaded up his back. Not that he was particularly tight, but she did have quite a way with her hands. Yes, Crowley thought fondly of _just_ how good she was with her hands as she leaned over him.

A sudden sharp and searing pain shot straight through his back. All of it was white, white, and then she was on the floor and Crowley was struggling to keep himself intact, human, and on the bed. His back was _burning_ , burning like she’d just lit fire to him. A pyre. A something—that thing round her neck had the shape of a _cross_ Crowley realized, and how stupidly cliché it all was. A cute little consecrated cross from a religious girl who’d put it all away for a night of fun, and to be picked up by a demon, of all people. She’d never know. She could never know, but there were very few precious seconds left before she knew. Crowley could feel the skin on his back tearing away— _how could one little necklace be so powerful_?

“Anthony!?” she shrieked.

“You have to go, now,” he said back, scrambling for the sheets. If his wings were about to pop of their own accord, the least he could do would be pretend it wasn’t happening. The only thing standing between him and that horrid version of reality was a sheer force of will.

“Are you alright? Have I hurt you?”

“You need to go!” he really shouted this time, pulling out of bed with the sheet around his shoulders. He kicked her clothes too her, muttering on about something and talking faster than she could understand. His intentions were clear though, and the hurt wrote out well on her face.

“Well,” and she’d managed to pull a shirt on, “screw you, Anthony.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” his teeth were gritted together. He didn’t bother to show her to the door, just locked his bedroom door tight once she’d finally shuffled out.

He held on for exactly five seconds after that. One second to hear her footsteps. Three seconds to hear her shout. Four and five to hear her far enough away that she would be out the door. Hopefully, she’d be out the door soon enough, so Crowley didn’t have to worry. Until then, his wings broke free of whatever hold he’d ever had on them and filled all the empty space of the room. Something hit the floor, but he’d deal with that later. The pain was beginning to subside, and he figured that it might take a moment or two for it to truly disappear.

Then, he turned at the sound of his phone. He, of course, had the land line, though he hadn’t much use of it lately. His cell phone was ever more useful, and after a week or two of prodding and begging and chocolates, he’d finally gotten Aziraphale to call it first. Somehow, after all the time answering machines had existed, Aziraphale still hadn’t quite grasped the concept of them. The messages he left were always chopped up like he was talking—to the answering machine. Better to just call the phone that Crowley always had in his pocket and skip the mess. That very same phone was ringing. Aziraphale’s face was lit up in the small little circle, ‘Angel’ at the top of the screen.

Crowley had an _idea._

When he answered the phone, he did attempt to sound as out of breath as possible. Aziraphale might have had something to tell him, may have even just been calling to offer him lunch, but his tone was concerned all at once with the pathetic manner in which Crowley spoke.

“Crowley, my dear, are you alright? You sound dreadful,” Aziraphale was worrying at his bottom lip. Demons and angels didn’t get sick, so that was right out of the question, but there were many _many_ other things that could have happened to him. Some of them were terrifying to think about, to the point where Aziraphale was actually worried that Heaven and Hell hadn’t kept true to their promise to leave them for the moment.

“I—I’m not sure. Something happened, I don’t even know what—” which wasn’t an entire lie. Most of one, though. The best lie Crowley had told in a while, he thought. “Can you come by? I’m rather indisposed at the moment.” He made a rather play of groaning, and all he needed to do was flap his wings for Aziraphale to hear the beat of wind.

“Oh, my,” Aziraphale gulped. “Are you at your flat? I’ll stop by as soon—”

“Right now, angel. It hurts. I, I need your help.”

Aziraphale agreed without further prodding. With that settled, Crowley maneuvered his way around the room until he could find a way to sit comfortably. It wasn’t that his room was particularly small, or his wings were particularly large, there was just so much more mass than he was used to carting around in the space. It was too much to contain, an issue he’d struggled with for approximately six-thousand years anyway. Still. There was time enough for him to pull on some underwear before Aziraphale appeared into his flat. The whole idea of travel time was lost when magic was at hand and the stakes were something frightening. Crowley being hurt seemed high enough stakes; he’d barely pulled up some tight little pair of boxers before Aziraphale was knocking on his bedroom door.

“Right,” Crowley muttered, then snapped his fingers. The door unlocked. “It’s open!”

The door opened, and Aziraphale squeezed his way inside. Crowley, looking ever the part he was playing, was hunched over his knees with his head in his hand, panting. Sweat would’ve made it look better, but they didn’t sweat. Aziraphale would’ve noticed something was up if he was sweating. As it was, he only knew that something was _wrong,_ and it was wrong with Crowley. The concern painted over his face was something to think on, at least. A swell in Crowley’s chest as Aziraphale made his way across the room, picking at the stray string on his waistcoat. It took a moment longer for Crowley to realize the sudden discomfort—his room _looked_ like he’d had a particular type of visitor. For one, he was still mostly naked; the bed was near destroyed and there was a bottle of lubricant sitting proudly on the nightstand.

“Should I hear the story, then?” Aziraphale wondered if this might have been a stand gone wrong. Crowley certainly didn’t correct him, just cleared his throat and grabbed for the sheet again. He needed the shield; his glasses would’ve been too obvious at this point. Not since he’d taken not to wearing them around Aziraphale—all requests to be granted or something like that. Crowley did like to look at him, anyway.

“I, well,” Crowley sniffed, “had a friend over.”

“A friend, yes,” Aziraphale looked entirely too convinced, raised eyebrow and enthusiastic nod to hide the disbelief in his straight pressed lips. He plucked up the bottle of lubricant and made quite the show of closing the cap.

“A special friend,” Crowley amended. Aziraphale put the bottle back in the drawer. “That’s not important. What’s important is—”

“Oh, dear,” Aziraphale saw what was important as he rounded to the other side of the bed. The burn was large and red and angry, jutting out in all different directions in and around Crowley’s wings. _On_ his wings, even. “What the Hell happened to you?”

Crowley made a strange sound in his throat, “I don’t really know. She was giving me a massage—”

“Oh, a lady this time?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. Crowley felt the bed shift and move behind him; Aziraphale was kneeling just inches away, his hands hovering over the burn.

“Why does that matter?” he hissed in response.

Aziraphale didn’t answer.

“Anyway, I’m putting my blame on the necklace. Apparently, she was a catholic girl.”

“You’re telling me some blessed little necklace is what did this to you?” Aziraphale’s hand was on his back, then, and Crowley hissed through his teeth. The hand retreated immediately.

“Like I said, I don’t _know_.”

“Shouldn’t it just heal? I know it was blessed, but that shouldn’t matter in such a small concentration. It wasn’t as if you were hit with holy water, my dear.”

“Holy water,” Crowley rolled his eyes, “is precisely what makes it blessed, angel. I thought you knew that.”

Aziraphale’s face squinted up as he inspected the damage, but then his hands were roaming over Crowley’s wings and something felt different. Crowley had the sheets scrunched up close, trying not to actively shiver. He could almost see the scene, Aziraphale’s hands over his wings. His nails were always so nice and manicured; his skin was soft. It felt nice. Those hands just moving through his feathers; some of them weren’t in such good shape anymore. There was the whole, well, _burn_ on his back. And the fact that his wings never really got a chance to breathe out like this. Not a lot of time was around for stretching and pruning, though he could probably make some.

“Surely you can heal this up, though?” Aziraphale asked. “I could help with the wings, though. A bit of a mess, my dear.”

“I really can’t, I’ve tried,” another small little lie. Surely Aziraphale wouldn’t notice. “I’m asking for your help, angel. I’ll understand if it’s too much to ask, with the bookshop and all. I just can’t put the wings away.”

“Ah, that would be rather troublesome.”

“Rather troublesome,” Crowley repeated, slightly off tone.

“If you’re going to act like that, I won’t help. Otherwise, might you move to the floor? That should make this a bit easier.”

“What, exactly?”

Roughly five minutes of toeing around each other later, Crowley was kneeling on the floor in front of Aziraphale, his wings spread out behind him so Aziraphale could work them out. At first, it was just his fingers, moving through the feathers and straightening them out. Every stroke was a flash of warmth all the way back to Crowley’s spine. There was such a care in how Aziraphale moved, how he was humming to fill the silence between them. The first _pluck,_ though, was entirely different. Crowley’s hands might have been wound up for an entirely different reason, but he still gasped.

“Sorry,” Aziraphale pulled his hands away immediately. Then, he held the feather out over Crowley’s shoulder. “It’s a little, well. Probably not a very helpful one, yes?”

The feather was charred.

“No, I suppose not,” Crowley took the feather and spun it in his fingers.

“Is it alright if I…?”

Crowley nodded.

Aziraphale went back to work, then, back to his humming. Now, every now and again there was a sharp pain in between the soft and wonderful touches. Which. Crowley wished he’d asked for this before in just some idle conversation. He might even like to get his hands on Aziraphale’s wings to know if it was the same pleasant little feeling. There was some kind of warmth spreading through him; the type of warmth that left him boneless and a little relaxed against Aziraphale’s legs. And to think this was only one wing that he was working on. One wing that wasn’t even nearly done. Aziraphale had only worked through about half of it, though the plucking had stopped not a few minutes into the preening. Now it was just. Pleasant. Lovely. Humming along with Aziraphale and letting his eyes close.

By the time Aziraphale had reached the end of the first wing, he was also smiling. The burn over Crowley’s back was nearly gone, but he didn’t have to know that. Neither did Aziraphale if he just ignored it and moved to Crowley’s other wing instead. The charred feathers weren’t going to get rid of themselves, so this was useful to some extent. Useful. Utilitarian at its finest. Aziraphale wasn’t enjoying this, and he certainly wasn’t privy to Crowley’s enjoyment of it. The humming and the relaxed look of his shoulders was nothing. It was just a means to an end, even if it meant Aziraphale got to have his hands in Crowley’s wings. This was something neither of them had ever done before. Not. Not really. Not this close. Not for this long.

Another feather gone. Crowley was letting them pile up on the floor in turn for lulling his eyes back and leaning into Aziraphale’s knee. With as relaxed as he was, there was nothing stopping the healing from doing its work. Angels, demons—they were all the same at the end of the day. Even if Crowley wanted to make some far-fetched excuse that the healing had turned off in the Fall, Aziraphale would catch that bluff. He would’ve caught any bluff, save for how Crowley hadn’t caught his own bluff yet. He was too busy reveling in the brush of Aziraphale’s fingernails and the stirring warmth in his gut. Maybe just a bit lower, but he was refraining for the moment.

“Is that alright, dear?” Aziraphale asked.

Crowley returned a lazy mumble as an answer. He was definitely alright. More than alright. He was positively happy. Content.

“Is the pain still there?” Aziraphale knew well the answer, but he still smiled at Crowley’s response.

“It’s unbearable, angel. I may need you to stay the night.”

Aziraphale nearly laughed, though he did contain it. “Perhaps I should order in?”

“For who, yourself?”

“I can get some wine, too, if you like. I’d have to stop back by the shop—”

“No, no. I’d rather you stay. For emergencies; you understand.”

“I do, of course. Shift a little, would you?”

Crowley did as he was asked and failed to contain the breathy little noise at Aziraphale’s new touch. This was precisely the reason angels tended to have better groomed wings. They were just damn skilled at it; if Crowley had only known, he’d certainly have pulled something like this earlier. The girl had helped; where Crowley usually prided himself on not forgetting a name or a face, she was escaping him. Replaced with everything Aziraphale. And his fingers, of course. So much better with his fingers, and that was a theory Crowley was willing to try out. Another day, though. A particular scheme of his needed attending first, with a question of just how long it might take for a figurative holy water burn to heal.

A week might be a nice time frame, though that was probably out of the question. Aziraphale had his moments, but he certainly wasn’t stupid. On the contrary, Aziraphale had always been quite clever. Clever enough that he’d know Crowley was lying if he begged a week’s time, so that was too much. Just for the day didn’t seem like it would be enough, though. Crowley _craved_ this kind of attention. Well, he did now. He hadn’t about forty-five minutes ago when Aziraphale had first touched his wings. Forty-six minutes ago, he might have never even considered something like this would happen. Might have not even _wanted_ it. But. Now was different. He could probably spring for a couple of days, even if the wing touching stop. Aziraphale might abide by a couple of days.

“How long do you think a wound like this will take to heal?” Crowley asked.

“Oh, heavens, I haven’t a clue. I’ve never seen a wound like this.” He didn’t see a wound at all.

“Would you stay then? A couple of days more, maybe. Just in case.”

Aziraphale popped the a rather fond smile. “I will be ordering in, then. If you want anything—”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t, but. Thank you.” A quiet thanks, but one all the less. Aziraphale even spared him a brush of fingertips, in the space just between his wings. The touch was more of a fire than it had any right to be, and Crowley shifted again. He was trying to get closer and away all at the same time, not sure what sort of want he really needed to be displaying at a time like this.

All that mattered was that Aziraphale continued threading out the feathers in his wings until there were no more stray ones to pluck and everything was all back in order. Sleek and lovely, just like everything else Crowley was. Aziraphale had a bad mind to lean forward and press kisses into the skin before him, especially now that it was healed and fresh again. He would never do anything so brash, not when he wasn’t really sure what the outcome would be. There were many things he could do that would get certain reactions from Crowley; he knew this from experience. If he asked in just the right tone, there wasn’t much Crowley wouldn’t be willing to do for him. A kiss, however, was far outside of any territory they’d ever entered together.

“You know,” he started, “I am glad it wasn’t any demons or angels here.”

“You and me both,” Crowley snorted like that had actually been a possibility.

“When you answered the phone like that, I did think the worst. Knowing your wounds are small and fixable is quite the relief. I’m not sure what I’d do if, well,” he stopped himself short and idly moved through Crowley’s feathers again.

“I think I need a drink,” Aziraphale changed subjects before Crowley could even open his mouth. “Would you like one, my dear? You can’t very well fit through the door with these, not without hurting yourself.”

“Right. Yes. That sounds lovely,” Crowley shifted to lean back into the bed as Aziraphale moved away. Neither of them paid obvious attention to how Crowley wasn’t in pain, because that would involve admitting to something neither of them quite knew yet.

Aziraphale made his way down to the kitchen and grabbed for two wine glasses. They could at least be appropriate, given the time of the morning, and skip the drinking straight from the bottle. One glass for each of them, though Aziraphale took liberty to fill them a bit higher than you might be served at a restaurant where they took more care to the proper serving. There was something else, though, sitting out on the counter where there was no possible way to miss it. A hastily scrawled note that might have been better left out in the study where Crowley would be assured to see it, but the author of said note had no reason to know Crowley was a demon who didn’t eat much. Or ever, really. The note, though. Aziraphale lifted it.

The lady friend did have a name, apparently. Aziraphale didn’t feel better off for reading it out to himself: Alana. Alana had written out a little note in lovely script apologizing for whatever it was she’d done, and if Crowley accepted her apology, well. There was the phone number that Aziraphale didn’t look at long enough to read properly. He crumbled the note in his palm and dropped it in the waste bin before scooping up the wine glasses to head back. Crowley barely used his kitchen, anyway. He wouldn’t have seen the note. Aziraphale was just cleaning up for him; he always did love his clean spaces.

Crowley accepted the glass of wine and downed it before Aziraphale could even sit on the edge of the bed. He was careful when he sat so that he wouldn’t accidentally harm Crowley’s wing. From this angle, he could see even better just how healed Crowley was. There was strain showing back up on his face, like he was trying to keep the healing from happening—unaware that it already had. Aziraphale just smiled to himself and sipped on the wine.

By the time the three-day time limit was ending, both of them were on edge. Something about guilt, which Crowley wasn’t a fan of. He wished it would’ve been on some pamphlet of side effects that occurred from having spent far too long on earth, but it was too little too late. It left him nervously upset, sitting in the bedroom by himself and waiting for Aziraphale to return. This was something he’d been mulling over for at least thirteen hours, that he would come clean and tell Aziraphale he hadn’t actually needed him to be here. He’d realized he was healed the first time Aziraphale went to grab more drinks and his wings had tucked themselves away in habit. He’d brought them right back out.

One thing that struck him strange, though, was how fidgety Aziraphale was being. He’d nearly tripped over a carpet that wasn’t there, as his poor excuse had been until Crowley pointed out that he didn’t particularly _do_ floor rugs. Quite the awkward encounter, it was. Now, even seated on the edge of the bed, he was doing everything to keep his hands and eyes to himself. Even his knees were pressed together in nervous jitters. All of it said one thing, that Aziraphale was hiding something. You didn’t have a best friend for this long and not pick up on their tells, after all. The only question remained of what could Aziraphale possibly be hiding? Aziraphale wasn’t a fan of guilt either, it seemed. Though, Crowley merely went on and sipped at the wine.

Neither of them was drunk, though Crowley was starting to feel the little bubble of warmth spread through his limbs. A welcome feeling. A bad feeling, because he shouldn’t be drunk when he admitted to his scheme. He would set the wine aside, turn, and quite literally be on his knees before Aziraphale when he confessed. That seemed fitting enough plan. Just putting down a half-filled glass of wine was enough to get Aziraphale’s attention, anyway. He kept out of the way as Crowley turned around, the wings following and taking up more space than they needed to. His little longing touch to just the edge of a feather didn’t go unnoticed, either. Crowley’s face _was_ red when he looked at Aziraphale, but he ignored it.

“I need to tell you something,” he said.

“Anything,” Aziraphale replied. He looked concerned but kept that to himself.

“I may have lied to you. Just a bit.”

Aziraphale made no comment about the nature of a demon, for which Crowley was grateful.

“I really didn’t need you to stay. I’ve been fine for days—”

“Oh, I already know,” Aziraphale waved it off. “You were so relaxed the first time I groomed your wings; I suspect you just allowed your body to heal without realizing.”

Crowley blinked. His eyes were big and stupid and yellow.

“I suppose my little secret is that I noticed and didn’t tell you? Though, that’s not what I wanted to say. I do have something I need to tell you, as well, it’s just that—”

“Wait, wait, wait. Back up. You? You _knew_ I was lying, and you just stayed? Why? You’ve done nothing but fetch drinks and clean my wings!”

“Yes, and I’ve quite enjoyed your selection of wine. I haven’t any idea why you don’t invite me over more often.”

“You—because you hate my flat. It’s too cold and empty, you always say.”

“The wine, dear,” and he shifted his glass to make a point, “is cause enough.”

Crowley frowned. “Alright, so what’s your big secret? You’ve been fidgeting all day.”

That killed whatever jolly little mood had been building between them, because it left Aziraphale with that uncomfortable lump in his throat that happened when he needed to say something but wasn’t quite sure what to say. It usually led to a lot of partial sentences, stammering, and poor attempts at running away. He was quite literally trapped in this situation, however. With the bedroom door closed and Crowley’s right wing coming to curl around them, Aziraphale had nowhere to go. Unless he wanted to roll back on the bed, though he wasn’t a fan of ruining his suit. So, he stayed.

“Did you like her?” Aziraphale winced. “The catholic girl.”

“The catholic girl? Yes, yes, well enough I suppose. Don’t think that’s the type I need to be consorting with. Who knows what other holy water dipped _shit_ she has laying around,” and his face scrunched up? Enough of it would leave a burn he couldn’t recover from.

“Her name was Alana.”

“I’d forgotten.”

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow, “that’s unusual of you. You tend to remember the names of your lovers.”

Crowley was less than amused.

“Was it Finn last time? A rather strapping young fellow on holiday from Ireland?”

Crowley’s lips were pressed in a hard line.

“Before him was a rather short businessman, I remember because he also liked tartan. I saw him leaving your flat on a visit, do you recall?”

“Yes,” through gritted teeth.

“I do believe his name was Jonah.’

“Is there a point—”

“Then, there had been Amanda, Sofia, and Lena—”

“Aziraphale!” Crowley _near_ shouted, his hands gripped up in fists on his knees. He was glaring. He might have even been angry, but underneath it all was a burning question. “Why in the Heavens do you know all the names of people I _sleep with?_ ” he hissed.

Aziraphale’s rather prideful little look fell immediately. Of any question Crowley could’ve asked, that should have been one Aziraphale saw coming. He hadn’t, though, and had let himself ramble on because he _did_ know the names of Crowley’s lovers. All of them. He had no _business_ knowing them all, especially the ones Crowley hadn’t told him about. That may have been his slip up, because Crowley had not told him about Sofia. As he was to understand, Sofia had been a bit of a soft spot at the time. Though, it had been some odd thirty years since her. Still—

“I saw her name on the note,” Aziraphale answered in a haste. “Alana. She left a note for you on the counter and I…”

“You…?” Crowley gestured in the air, trying to egg him into continuing.

“I threw it away!” Aziraphale gave in. “I threw the note in the garbage and promptly joined you for wine. I’m an absolute disgrace of an an—”

“Why?” Crowley’s voice was oddly soft. Fond, even, if Aziraphale was feeling particularly prideful that day; he wasn’t.

“Why…?” Aziraphale thought playing dumb would be his ticket out of here. Crowley saw right through it and shifted closer. His wings had almost entirely enveloped them now. In safety.

“Why did you throw the note away?”

“You don’t even care what it said?” Aziraphale played the best offended tone he could muster, but nothing of it impressed Crowley.

“I told you, lovely woman as she was, probably not the sort I need to be _fraternizing_ with.”

Oh. Aziraphale gulped.

“Well, I—you see. I suppose it was something, rather, there might have been—Oh, I…” Aziraphale was searching for the words, wringing his hands together and watching as Crowley stood up. Aziraphale was expecting anger. He wouldn’t even put it past Crowley to slap him, though he hardly believed he ever would. Instead, when he looked up, Crowley just looked like Crowley. His eyes were a little wider, and his face was a little softer. But it was Crowley, through and through.

“You were jealous,” he said. Not like an accusation. Not with shock. Just a fact.

“Yes, I rather suppose I was,” Aziraphale agreed.

“You’ve always been jealous.”

Aziraphale didn’t respond to that one.

“And that’s why you stayed. My scheme was as good an excuse as any to stay with me,” though, Crowley did sound a bit shocked at that realization. His face sung all the questions he would never ask, too afraid of the answers.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale stood then, too, in the little space between the bed and Crowley’s chest. They were close, but not so close that they would touch.

“Have you ever…?” Crowley asked.

Aziraphale shook his head and straightened Crowley’s shirt for him, “not since 1941, I’m afraid. I’ve been rather hung up on someone.”

“That’s a long time.”

“Not quite as long as them, I think,” and he smiled. They didn’t need to say anything, not after that. They already knew.

One day, Aziraphale would hear those questions Crowley let die in his throat, and he would answer them. He would get the chance to tell Crowley everything he thought. That Crowley was clever and beautiful and strong. That Crowley was everything and more, that Aziraphale could never want for more if Crowley was right there, and he was. Crowley was right there, a breath away, in some awe over Aziraphale’s quiet confession. There was a beat where they did nothing but stare at each other, but then Crowley really committed and put his hands on Aziraphale’s waist. They were kissing in the next second.

Aziraphale’s hands were between them, ghosting over Crowley’s chest and up to his neck to pull him down, pull him closer. What three inches Crowley had on him had never mattered much until this exact moment, where Aziraphale was reveling in the way Crowley just washed over him with that sudden heat of his kisses. His wings, too, where there, wrapped around the both of them so that it was dark. The world was theirs. And they were kissing. Crowley’s fingers were pressing into his clothing, the skin beneath, in just the same time that his lips were moving. Closer, closer, his _tongue_ suddenly along Aziraphale’s bottom lip. Aziraphale opened right up for him and pressed as close as he could, wrapping his arms fully about his shoulders and tugging.

A moment later, all fire down Aziraphale’s nerves, they were falling back on the bed. Crowley caught himself on his hands before he landed and had moved his wings just in time. Now, what a sight beneath him. Aziraphale was laying on the sheets, a stark shout of white amid the black silk. He was red faced and panting, his hands still lingering softly on Crowley’s neck. And Crowley, just as nervous and just as red. His wings were spread out in the air above them, moving idly in the space like Crowley wasn’t sure what to do with them.

“Could I tempt you to lunch?” Crowley sounded right out of breath.

Aziraphale broke into a goofy grin and nodded, “always, Crowley.”

Crowley leaned down and met him in another kiss, but then there was more to do. First, Crowley needed to tuck his wings away. Then, there was the matter of appropriate dress, where they would be dining, and all of it fell right back into a rather domestic routine, they noticed. Something they’d been doing for ages but never really knew what it meant, until now, when Aziraphale linked their hands just before they left the flat. There would be plenty of time during dinner to talk, and just as much afterward to look at what they were, where they were going, and just how much of it they’d do linked together like this. But that was for a later moment. For this moment, Crowley lived in the warmth that spread between their fingers and led on, like a proper gentleman.

**Author's Note:**

> Good Omens fic is so fun to write, wow. I should take requests.
> 
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